


No Matter What is Said

by kayurafii



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Awkward Flirting, Awkward Sexual Situations, Bad headspace, Devout Andrastian, F/M, Fade to black sex, Fantasy Violence, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, I know I'll be adding more tags, Loss of Innocence, Rewrite, Sass, Socially awkward, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, brought on by stress, but she does rise to meet expectations, canon violence, for lots of reasons, mage pride, repost, she doesn't handle things well, she gets panicy, sometimes, tiny bit of non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-04-04 22:37:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayurafii/pseuds/kayurafii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kaylen was born a Teyrn's daughter and a mage.  Those two things do not go well together.  But, despite everyone's better judgement, they hide their daughter; they say she's too ill for public function.  They bring in theoretical tutors, pay exorbitant fees for their discretion, and she remains locked away from the world.</p><p>And she would have stayed that way if she hadn't been so dumb as to heal the only friend she had.  When Shadow, her mabari, overreacts to Ser Gilmore and her fooling around, and bites him, she feels that she has no choice but to fix it.  Too bad he wasn't as unconscious as she thought.  And too bad that he had to go and tell the house guard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. More than Humble Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> It's always bothered me that you can't play a mage who grew up Cousland. So I'm just gonna pretend that I did.
> 
> Changed to longer length chapters.
> 
>  
> 
> Basically I follow the events of the game, but try not to dwell on what we already know. This is my dialogue with the game I love, trying to make it the game that's in my head.
> 
> Reposted because I decided it needed a different format, I found a shit ton of typos that needed fixing, and I lost my voice fairly early on and am reworking it.

Chapter One

“I’ll hear not one word more, Irving.  The girl will be Harrowed or she will be made Tranquil before the week is out!” Ser Greagor’s voice echoes through the Circle’s halls and high arches.  “She’s been too long outside of influence.  There’s no knowing _what_ she’s learned or from whom!”

“Greagor,” First Enchanter Irving’s voice drawls lowly, “I, as well as the Senior Enchanters, have interviewed her and you have interrogated her.  Nothing will prove to you her innocence, save her destruction.  You will question her faith and motives every day.”

“I do not doubt that she may be more faithful than the novices, and likely some of mine own knights, but it does not change the fact that she grew up apostate.  She will test the boundaries.  She needs to know that we mean business.” the knight claps his gauntlet clad hands together, the clanging punctuating his claims

“And we do, old friend, but perhaps she should like a moment to breath and acclimate before you dangle her before death.”

“No, we need three days to prepare, and that is all she shall have.” the louder clang of marching steps exiting the room signaling the end of the debate.

“Yes, Greagor, perhaps you are right.” Irving says, sounding less defeated than his words belied.

The greaves pass my vision, as I refuse to look up, no visible difference to my eye than those of my guard, though I assume there must be some given the difference in rank.  I’m more than proud of myself for not shaking in fear as he marches passed me and then out of my hearing.  Minutes pass, the only sounds my own sniffling, Irving shuffling around his office, and the Templar subtly shifting next to me.

“You may come in, child.” the voice of the First Enchanter, while not soothing, is enough to calm my breathing down.  I know how to put on a brave face, how to save face.  The first lesson my mother taught me.

The footsteps of my guard echo behind me through the doorway and and into audience with the my mentor.

“Yes, First Enchanter?” My voice sounds even, to me anyway, and I use the motion of tucking hair behind my ear to ground myself.

“You have heard your fate, what have you to say?” Irving isn’t even looking at me, his attention on parchment rolled out over his desk.

“I’ve heard of the Harrowing, sir, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.  And no one will tell me.  Is it often fatal?”

“Just as with every other day, child, we are only mortal.” His fingers traces along the parchment, stopping here and there as a quill follows in the other hand.

My guard stifles a laugh, poorly, and I find myself grinning along with him.

“Ser Cullen, you may wait outside.”

“Sir.” He says as he turns on his heel, face suddenly very serious.

“The reason, it would seem to me, that no one would tell you, would be that you had sub-par tutors.  Or very moral ones.” He puts his quill down, underlining where he left off.  “You see, child, the Harrowing is kept a secret on purpose and out of necessity.  You will find out soon enough.  I’m arranging for you to have study sessions with each of the Senior Enchanters to make sure that you’re up to speed.  We don’t want to send you in just to fail.”

“Yes, sir.”  Honestly, I don’t know what to think.  “Nothing could have prepared me for this.  My family just wanted me to be able to hide, blend in with our peers.  Not, pass any examinations.”

“Three days,”

“Yes, sir, I’ll be ready.” I interrupt him, I shouldn’t do that, I can see by the look he give me, but I nervously plough on, “I’ve always been a quick study.”

“As that may be,” he says, taking back control, “you will be expected to make each of your sessions.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll do fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And child?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You _will_ do just fine.” He smiles at me, his eyes wrinkling kindly.

“Yes sir.” I smile back, but it can’t reach my eyes.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Cullen?” The First Enchanter’s eyes don’t leave mine.

“I’ve been instructed to take the apprentice to her bunk.” The Templar, Cullen, stands at attention, eyeing the back wall past both our shoulders.

Irving reaches across his desk, boney fingers grasping my shoulder, “Don’t worry.  And you,” he looks at Cullen’s unfocused eyes over my shoulder, “be gentle with her.  She _is_ a Teyrn’s daughter.”

“Sir,” I interrupt again, my stomach rolling, “I’ve spent the majority of my life under guard and behind walls and under suspicion.  I think I’ll be fine.”

“Whatever you say, child.”

“Apprentice…” Cullen stands to the side of the door, gesturing for me to exit.

“First Enchanter.” I nod to him, and leave the room with my head held high.  In the hall, I turn to Cullen, my eyes meeting his before he takes the lead, “My name is Kaylen.”

 

* * *

Three days pass fairly quickly when every hour is spent literally running between tutors and lectures.  And with no free time, and with exhaustion putting me to sleep after hours of intense private study, I certainly had no time to worry about my Harrowing.  And still no idea what that entailed.

“Hey, new girl, why’re they putting you through the motions so fast?”

“Kaylen.” I say, not looking up from my notes.

“Kaylen,” he says, reading over my shoulder.  “This is really advanced for someone new to the Circle.  Although, you are older than the usual new apprentice.  So, I suppose, the better question is where did you transfer from?  And what did you do to be sent to Kinloch?”

“Do you want the truth?” I can’t help but sound snide.  He can’t even be bothered to introduce himself.

“Well, it’s either you tell me, or I just assume the _rumors_ are true.”

“Rumors?” I don’t want to be curious, but I can’t help it, the only rumors about me since my childhood being my chronic illnesses, which weren’t that far from truth.

“Oh, you know, the standard; you’ve run away from your circle too many times and they needed to pass you off somewhere else, you were caught in an illicit affair with a Templar, I could go on but I think you get the idea.”

“Who do you think you are?” I’m not sure if I sound as angry as I feel, but my voice is quiet and even, like my mother, and with the dog’s sharp teeth, just like father taught me.

He stops, his smile falling from his face.  “Uh, Jowan.  My name’s Jowan.”

“Jowan, don’t you think it’s impolite to start rumors about people you don’t know?” My teeth feel as sharp as my voice, despite that I can’t meet his surprised gaze.

“Excuse me, princess,” he mutters derisively, just loud enough for me to hear him.

I freeze, and feel the blood drain from my face.  “Leave me alone Jowan, I need to study.”

“What? You’re actually royalty?” Incredulity colors his sarcasm.

“No, you nit, of course not.  But I’m not from another circle either.  My family hid me well.” My voice starts firm and forceful, but I begin to lose my nerve before my confession.  By the end, I’m barely able to whisper as my throat closes in on itself.  “I’m to be Harrowed soon, the Templars don’t trust me.”

“They don’t schedule Harrowings.” His whisper matches mine for volume, but he has none of my fear.  Only a slight hint of wonder.

“Well, apparently, they made an exception for me.” Despair creeps into my voice, sounding enough like resignation to soothe my pride.

“No, this is seriously strange, normally apprentices are stolen away in the dead of night, no warning at all.  Some are never seen again.” He sounds sad, afraid.  And curious.

At least I’m not the topic anymore.

“Do you want help studying?  I’ve been here a while, I’m more than competent.” He offers, actually holding his hand open towards my stack of books.

“No, thank you, I never learned to study with others, and now seems a poor time to learn a new skill as well as all of the other things they believe I need to know.”

“Do you know any offensive spells?” He probes further, even as I lower my head to return to work.

“I can use a staff, my mother didn’t think it wise for me to learn spells that could hurt people.  I know Creation spells and the Primal freeze spell.  For emergencies, of course.”

“Of course,” he agrees too quickly for my tastes, like he doubts my integrity, “but since you don’t know what you’re getting into, and no one can give you concrete forewarning, don’t you think it would be wise to round out your skills a bit?”

“Do I have time, before the day is out, to learn a new spell from scratch?  I’m a fast learner, but that is pushing it, I think.” I don’t directly agree with him, but I also can’t find a suitable argument.

“Really don’t know until you make an attempt, do you?” He snipes back to me.

“Fine,” if he won’t leave me alone, he can help me, “what do you suggest?” I close the book in front of me, something going over the Chantry’s laws for Mages.  Things I already know, but need to be re-familiarized with, given my new surroundings.

“Well, Primal, I find, is fairly easy to pick up, and I imagine you’d take to fire or lightning easily enough.  Red hair, blue eyes, firey personality.  You have passion to spare.”

“First rule of study; don’t get distracted.  if you can’t focus on the spell with me, leave now.  I have no intention of lighting something on fire because you feel the need to flirt with me.” I begin to open my book again, fretting over finding where I left off.

“Look,” his hands push the book mostly close, my fingers getting caught between the pages, “enough of us disappear through their _legitimate_ means, I don’t want to give them any more reason than they already have to hate us.  Let me help you.”

“Then help, and keep your mind on task.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He says as he mock salutes me. “I mean,” he smiles wide and slow, “your Majesty.”

My glare is not nearly as heated as I wish it could be.

 

* * *

I can’t help but be distracted by the shifting Templar, one of many, and only one with sword drawn, as justifications are given.  Parts of the Chant of Light are recited in the background; white noise.

Then, armed with nothing save years of study and a few parting words from Irving and Greagor, I awaken to the Fade.  At least, I think it’s the Fade.  It seems so much bigger than I’m used to.  The dull island sprawling around me, swirling portals to take me to other islands, it’s very different from my own dreamscape.

Mouse is less than helpful, squeaking things I already know and can plainly see.  And I’ve never heard of people being stuck in the Fade, as he seems to be.  I know I don’t know everything, but I remain suspicious of him.

Good thing too.

The spirit of Valor is helpful, the Sloth demon distracting, and the Rage demon burns me more than once.  But with all of them past, neither tempting nor taunting me in any real way, I know my task is not over.

Mouse.

Maker-forsaken Mouse.

Andraste preserve me, I deny it, and a cold sweat washes over my dream body as the Pride demon fades away.

 

* * *

No one should have to wake up to multiple revelations.  But that seems to be the standard for me, as of late.  Jowan is there, standing over me when I wake up. Jolt up, more like, still shivering from my night sweats.

“I hate to say, I told you so.” At least he isn’t smiling.

“No you don’t.” I wipe my face with my pillow case.  I crave a bath, something cold that will keep me up for days.

“So, what was it like?” He reminds me of my mabari, trying to hide as she sneaks closer to steal off of the dinner plates.

“Is that why you were watching me sleep?” I eye him skeptically as I stand up.  “Why, Jowan, I had no idea you cared so!”

“Sarcasm won’t help me.” He says, almost coldly, desperation still in his posture.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to talk about it.  You’ll find out in time, when it’s your turn.” My words don’t appear to reach him as he moves towards me, but nothing about him changes.  His hands close over my wrists, not pulling and not tight, but cold and clammy.

“I helped you, remember that.” He whispers to me, and pulls back, and I wonder if I’m still in the Fade and my task remains incomplete.  His posture changes, he stands straight and his face clears, as I come in halfway through a sentence, “...see you in his office.”

“Excuse me?” I step back, needing space and air and sunlight most of all.  As the step gives me none of these things, I articulate when his brow furrows, “Sorry, my mind wandered.  What did you say?”

“First Enchanter Irving would like to see you in his office.” He says, intonation the same throughout.  Then he smiles, a small thing that only half of his mouth picks up, but crinkles his eyes none-the-less, “Maybe there is hope for me, if the test is such that a scatterbrain can pass it.”

“And known apostate, don’t forget.” I half heartedly laugh with him, trying to compose myself.

“Yes, that.” He smiles no bigger, but it feels more genuine.

“Well, I suppose I’d better go.  See you around, Jowan.” I wave as I pass him.

 

* * *

It shouldn’t surprise me that the halls are full of gossip and other idle talk as I meander towards the First Enchanter’s study.  And it shouldn’t surprise me, further, that I’m a topic on many lips.  A recent arrival mixed with a swift Harrowing have so many tongues wagging, and not always complimentary.

Though, they do tend to be informational.  I learn about my new home, without engaging too many people.  I find the fraternities intriguing, but less than useful to my current needs.  The Templars are cordial, I was expecting cold and hostile, the way the other Mages speak of them.  But the ones I’ve run into seem fine enough.

One, Templar Cullen, who escorted me my first few days, who held his sword free of it’s scabbard, appears to have a case of puppy-love for me.  I vow to avoid him.  I certainly do _not_ need more mystery or suspicion cast about me.

Lucky me when I cross him, shortly before my destination.  I can feel his eyes follow my heels.  At least he isn’t leering.  But it distracts me long enough that I don’t hear the voices until I’m already inside the room with three men; two talking and one arguing.  And one I don’t know, besides.

“Oh, excuse me, First Enchanter.  I’ll return when you’re free.”  I idly wish I had been paying attention to my surroundings, instead of the Templar, because their topic would have been enlightening.  At least I hope that Knight-Commander Greagor doesn’t always have that fire and rage in his eyes.

With exasperation fading, Irving’s eyes meet mine, “No need, child, we were just finishing here.”

The look Greagor gives Irving, as he passes us both, speaks volumes of how far they are from finished.  The clank of his boots follows him from the room, and it’s a few second until silence reigns between the three of us.

The stranger clears his throat, “I hear congratulations are in order, yes?” He doesn’t move his arm, but it twitches at his side, like he wants to lift it.

“Ah, yes, Duncan, this is our newest addition.  Kaylen, this is the Commander of the Grey, Duncan.” He sounds distracted.

“It’s a pleasure, Ser.”

“He’ll be staying with us, for a little while, until we can get a few things straightened out.” He turns away from me, shuffling around his desk to a chest in the corner.

“First Enchanter, may I ask...?” I don’t finish, but I also don’t expect him to let me finish.

“It is probably for the best, for now, if not.  Suffice it to say, there is need for our talents that Greagor seems to think is overstated.” When he turns again, he is laden with cloth and staff.  

I hold out my arms to relieve him.

“These are yours now, marks of your station as Harrowed Mage.  You will be given duties and study requirements, but you will have a certain amount of free time to pursue personal interests.  I am pleased to see you again.”

“And you, First Enchanter.  Thank you.” I nod my head, respectfully, finally feeling at ease.

“I have one request of you, before you are shown to your new quarters and you take the rest of the day off.” He looks towards Duncan.  “Would you see Duncan to the guest suite, please?”

“Of course, sir.”  I step to the door, waiting for Duncan to follow me.  “Follow me, please.”

Duncan and Irving share a look that I can’t read, but I suspect is about me, before Duncan gives a respectful farewell.

“Oh, and Kaylen? See me tomorrow for your duties and schedule.”

“Yes sir.” I say, though the bulk of Duncan stands between us.

I’ve affixed my staff to my back while waiting, and rebundled my armload by the time we pass the Templar whose eyes follow my heels again.

 

* * *

“Irving speaks highly of you,” he says to the back of my head, “certainly not the youngest Harrowed, but the swiftest.” He chuckles with little mirth.

“Why are you here, sir?  Is it…” I can’t actually bring myself to say the words.  I’ve read my histories, I know who the Grey Wardens are.  I know what they do.  Who they fight.

“I’m really not at liberty to talk about it, and I’m not sure a lady in your position should be involved.” He does sound reticent.  But I don’t want his pity nor his condescension.  

I’m proud of myself when I don’t turn heel to confront him, I do lower my voice so as to dissuade eavesdropping, “Ser, a lady of my breeding is not unfamiliar with war.  Not that that is what you mean.  But as a Mage, a Fereldan, and an Andrastian, I do believe that if the worst is upon us that I am bound to do all that I can.”

“That is admirable, Kaylen,” I like that he uses my name, “but I have been asked by the Knight Commander to hold my tongue until a consensus has been reached.  I will say that, if the worst is coming, that we need more with that mindset.”

I stop outside the door to the guest suite.  “Your room, sir.” I can’t help but sound cold.

“Thank you, study well, and pray that we find a common mind sooner than later, and I will tell you what I can if you still have interest.”

I nod, instead of answering, and turn to go with a brief bow.

 

* * *

Days pass, duties and study keep me busy.  I’m given to the keeper of the library, running down apprentices and Mages who have kept their tomes past the date when they promised to return them.  I’ve never walked so much, nor done so many stairs in my life!  But there is much down time to be had, and I fill it with reading books that, previously, were so far from my reach as to not exist at all.  And, being the runner of overdue orders, I run into some very interesting titles, and I get first dibs.  I have a not-so-small pile beginning on my desk.

I thoroughly enjoy my new quarters, my bed is larger than even my one at home.  A space of my own is not unusual to me, but the rest is novel.  There is something to be said of living with others who understand my condition.  That waking in a cold sweat and screaming is not an invitation for coddling and comfort.  That sometimes when I want to be alone, all I need to do is enter my personal space.  That, sometimes, food is so unpalatable that I simply do not show up at meal time.  And, when I don’t say a word all day, no one thinks it strange.

Aside from absorbing the library as quickly as I can, I spend many idle hours with Jowan.  I don’t know that I would call him friend, we don’t have enough in common nor do we see eye to eye well enough for that, but we keep each other company.  I do fear his paranoia is rubbing off on me.  He fears everything; Harrowing, the Chantry, the Templars, new and complicated magics.  Sometimes I stop doubting why he hasn’t been Harrowed, despite his age and years in the Circle.

This has only helped to strengthen my resolve to not engage the Templars in anything further than is necessary.  And, more often than I’d like, I find Cullen watching my shadow.  He is often posted in the library or the stairs between the Mage’s and Senior Mage’s apartments.  And the rumors continue to be spread, but like any rumors before, they are best ignored and left to die an undistinguished death.  But his gaze does haunt me.

When I can get away from him, in places where he could feasibly find me, I find I can relax.  I spend, at least, and hour every day in the Chantry, and once share prayer with an apprentice, try to help her come to terms with our condition.  I see her again, Tranaquil, and I thank the Maker for my family, for the strength I hope they instilled in me.  It’s odd, when I think of it, that I never see Cullen in the Chantry.  I wonder if the Templars have their own, or just keep different hours.  I thank the Maker, again, for small favors.

I may have to stop the giving thanks so swiftly, I think, when Jowan comes to me begging for help.

 

* * *

It’s been almost five weeks since I was brought to the Circle tower.  Almost a week and a half since my last screaming nightmare.  Too much to ask, I suppose for some kind of magical treatment for something we all have.

My father’s twisted face is what wakes me, demons stretching out his features over theirs.  His last words to me, whispered into his ear by my mother, echo in mine.  I wake up in a cold sweat.  The light, shining dimly through the stained glass stories above me, tells me it’s late in the morning.  I roll up, my night dress righting itself as I stand and falling into a wrinkled mess around my legs.  I’m not scheduled for anything today, so luckily I’m not late for anything.  Thank the Maker, for small favors.  

I bathe and dress and wash out my nightgown.  I leave my staff by my bed, I don’t need it today.

After breakfast, while everyone else is flittering in and out for lunch, I find the Chantry mostly empty.  A novice lights candles in a corner alcove, and I relish the smell of the new flames.  My breath evens out as I close my eyes, bow my head, and pray.

The room echoes with the footfalls of the novice, and it lulls me into easy meditation.  Little annoyances fall aside, my itchy scalp and aching knees become as white noise and I beg, not knowing what words to say, for the Maker to do something.  Anything.  Just make me forget my life before.

New footsteps join the novice’s.  Soft soled shoes, so not a Templar.  I let it fall into the background, a music composed with my breath as meter.  But the steps close on me, drawing me from my reprieve.  As I open my eyes, my breathing quickens, and I sit back up on the bench behind me,

“Is there a particular reason you choose to sit here?” I whisper, and Jowan shifts to face me.

“I…” he pauses to swallow audibly, “I need your help.” He doesn’t meet my eyes until he finishes.

“Alright,” I say and I stand, “let’s go somewhere we can talk.”

“Wait,” he’s a little too loud and the novice turns to look at us, “here’s fine.  I only...it’s just...follow me.”

He leads me over to the alcove with the candles, still smelling of new flame and old smoke.  They soothe me while Jowan’s twitches and avoidances fray my nerves.  Until the novice joins us.

“Excuse us,” I say, beginning to pull Jowan away, “we didn’t mean to interrupt your contemplations.”  But Jowan, exhibiting unknown strength, stands and pulls his sleeve from my hand.

“No, it’s alright.  Kaylen, this is Lily.” He stands beside her, backlit by the votives.

“It’s a pleasure.” My tone less dry than I thought it would be.

“Jowan’s spoken often of you.  Kindly, even.” She smiles at me, a small thing.  But there is fear and caution in her posture and on her face.

“We’re on love.” Jowan blurts.

“Excuse me?” Sure I’ve misheard him, no one could be that...but then I remember the rumor he threatened to spread about me.

“I know!  It’s dangerous and ill-thought, but we are.” I can see he’s not sure if he made the right choice in telling me.

I laugh, not as loud or as raucous as I would like, but loud enough that I stifle it quickly.  “My condolences, Lily.”  I keep chuckling, nervously.

Jowan looks offended as Lily looks confused.  I can only sigh.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I _told_ you.  I need your help.” He looks earnest.

“I don’t understand how I can do anything.”

“Alright, it’s not just about us.  We’re going to leave, get far away from here.  They’re going to make me Tranquil.” He’s got that soft look, as though he’s about to begin crying, desperation in every word.

“Again what could I _possibly_ do?  I’m a new Mage, no one trusts me, I have a Templar shadow...I can’t imagine how I could help you do anything.”

“But you can, because you are a Harrowed Mage.” Lily speaks suspiciously slow.  “You can go places and do things that neither of us can.”

“Yes, with all of us, the plan should be simple.” Jowan says, rubbing his hands together.

“So, will you help us?” Lily asks, just shy of interrupting him.

“I, well,” my mouth gapes while I think, taken aback by the whole ordeal. “I need to think about it.” I say before I dash away.

 

* * *

The First Enchanter’s office is colder than I remember.  Even with the sun high in the sky, and the summer heat pulsing through the colored glass.  He makes me wait, then marks his place in the book he’s reading, before allowing me to explain.  Not that I had much to explain.  I didn’t really know anything.

And that’s when he said the last thing I expected him to.

“You need to find out what they’re up to.” He sounds hard, and twenty years younger.

“But, we know about it, why not simply, I don’t know?  Deal with it quietly?  Tell them you know and to stop it?”  I can’t do what he’s asking.  My inability to outright lie convincingly is how I was found out and brought in.

“Desperation works marvels with the mind, child, it causes people to act very unlike themselves.  And either way, nothing can help it.  Jowan will be made Tranquil, but he will not be the only one punished so.” His back is to me now, as he paces before me, so I have no fear that he sees my slack-jawed face.

“Sir, isn’t that too harsh?”

“They are guilty, in this case, of the same crime, no?  And should they not be punished the same, as well?”

“First Enchanter, I cannot do this.” I put my hands up, defeated, no idea with how he could respond.

“Then you leave me no choice.  I order you to return to them, find out their plans and do whatever necessary to see them through.  I will see you at the other end.”  His face softens, having become taut and red with anger. “Fear not, Kaylen, I will not let you suffer with them.”

Nothing makes sense as I nod numbly and walk out of his office.

 

* * *

A rod of fire.  Owain tells me to get a Senior Enchanter’s signature to sign one out.  So, I call on a favor.  What’s a  signature to fighting off hordes of giant spiders?She signs readily enough, thanking me again for saving her neck.  And I smile, and thank her for her help, even though I know it doesn’t reach my eyes.

I thought elves had better vision.

Not for the first time, I wonder if I’ve even woken yet.  Nothing feels real, not since my waking nightmare, or Jowan’s confession, or Irving’s vindictive side showing itself.  And I feel sick over deceiving Jowan and Lily.  But I’ve made it to nineteen without being killed by Templars.  I’d like to make it far past.

So I get their damned rod of fire, and report to Irving to fill him in.  He doesn’t seem pleased, per se, but he isn’t distressed by any reach of my imagination.  He even improves upon their plans.  I can’t stop shivering intermittently, looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows and the echoing clang of Templar feet.

Lily and Jowan are waiting for me, right where we spoke hours before.  Maker take them.  And they lead me into the bowels of the Tower.  Getting in is easy, though neither of them suspect.  Even when we get to an impassible door, the objective door, I cannot dissuade them.  So I only need ask where the other door goes to.

So glad I asked.  It goes into dungeons, likely where I will end up after this escapade.  If I’m allowed my life.  I try to ignore the bones of those unlucky, and the bloodstains, and the smell, but the bars make an impression.  And I realize just how much of a prison I’ve been put in.

Finally, more than a few bruises and scrapes later, Jowan smashes his phylactery on the stone floor spraying blood onto the hem of my robes.  It’ll never come out. But he’s satisfied, and I can see the difference; his face is less drawn and his shoulders sag with his breath, and he grasps for Lily’s hand as he pulls her into a kiss.

I start to leave, the locked door opens from the inside, of course.  I don’t care who finds out.  I just want this done.  It feels as though I haven’t slept in days.

It’s quiet on our short walk out.  I expected to be met before we left the lower levels.  But I suppose a scene is better for moral.

We don’t even finish ascending the stairs to the main level before Greagor begins his posturing.  And there’s nothing Irving is saying that appears to sway him from my guilt.  Lily and Jowan speak simultaneously, Cullen looks anxious in the background, Irving is all but standing between Greagor and I.  And I can’t find my tongue.  My mouth is dry and my throat is closed.  No air, let alone speech, can pass my lips.

Then Jowan draws a knife.  Then Jowan slices his own hand, drawing power from his blood.  Lily screams, Templars tumble to the ground, Jowan makes excuses.  I faint.

 

* * *

When I wake again, I wonder if I’ve fallen out of bed.  The floor is cold and hard under me and my brain catches up with current events.  I really _had_ hoped it was all a dream.  A terrible nightmare that would dissipate with the morning.  Seems I can’t catch a break.

Irving is talking.  Then Greagor.  Then another man; Duncan?  They’re not arguing, no raised voices, but they sound urgent all the same.

“What did I say?  She can’t be trusted.” Greagor sounds smug, though incensed.

“I’ve told you, she was acting under my orders.” Irving sounds calm, if a little louder than I’ve heard him speak before.

“So you say, but you would say anything to protect your little pupils.” Greagor’s voice turns mocking.

“Gentlemen, please.  I think I have a solution.” Duncan cuts in while the other two draw breath.

I sit up to take in the scene.  Several Templars are cleaning the blood, more of which has colored my robes, and Lily stands cornered by two other Templars.  She appears bound.  Blinking, I wheel my head around to see Duncan and the others staring at me.  

Cullen is no where I can see.

“I have a need for Wardens, and it’s obvious that she can no longer stay here.” He says as though it were the simplest of things.  I feel the fear pulling in my chest, and I can’t even utter in my own defense.

“Out of the question!” Greagor roars, “She has proven our purpose here today.  At the very least, she shall be punished.  Solitary and training, at least.”

Irving looks as he’s about to object as Duncan bowls him over, “I will conscript her, if that is what it takes.” His arms fold over his chest and the set of his expression hardens.

“What?” I croak, pushing myself up against the protest of aching everything.

“You have a choice, it seems.” Irving says, arms folding as Duncan and making it sound as though I have no choice at all, “You may stay here and face whatever punishment Knight Commander Greagor will hand you, or you can go with Duncan and join his order.”

“I…” I clear my throat, “heard what was said, Ser.  But, you promised.” desperation opens my chest as I walk towards them.  Three men deciding my fate.  I don’t know why they asked me anything, it’s obvious my input is useless.

“That is no longer an option, child.” He speaks in a soothing tone, as though it were possible to calm me.

“Then I suppose there is only one course.” I say, choosing the way of dignity.  I put the dog’s teeth into my voice, harden my face, and straighten my back, “I will join the Wardens.”

“So be it.”

I don’t know who speaks, I’m already turning away to pack what few things I can take with me.  At least I can escape this prison.  Thank the Maker for small favors.

 

* * *

Duncan leads me out of the Tower as the sun is setting.  We spend the night in the Spoiled Princess, and I almost ask to sleep outside.  But our room has a window facing the hills away from the Tower, so I fall asleep staring over the treeline at the night sky.  Anyway, it occurs to me as I fall asleep, I don’t know when I’ll next sleep in a bed.

In the morning, he trades with the innkeep, and we set out.  I give a letter to him also, along with a little coin, to send it to my family in Highever.  It’s in the opposite direction of our destination, and many leagues away besides, so I don’t harbor any hope of stopping there.  

The sun has only begun to rise, and the air is damp with the humidity of the lake and the summer warmth.  It’s beautiful. I breathe deeply, feeling the chill the damp brings and relishing it.  

I keep pace behind Duncan as he marches steadily over the trail towards to Imperial Highway.  He says we’ll make it to Ostagar in less than a fortnight, but not by much.  We march on, mainly in silence.

As evening falls, we make camp well off the road, hidden in the trees.

“What’s going to happen to Jowan?” I ask between bites of bread and jerky as we sit around a small fire.

“More than likely, he’ll be made Tranquil.  But, as you may be aware, I know less about Circle policies than you.” He takes a drink from his flask.

I shrug, my gaze falling to the fire.  “What’s to become of me?” I can’t look at him as I ask and use the flames as an excuse and rub my eyes.

“You will join the Wardens.  Likely meet the king.  We don’t have many female recruits, nor ones of noble birth, so be prepared.” He looks through the fire at me, his face hard but with emotional eyes.

“What will my duties be?” I press forward, I need to know what I’m doing.  I’m done being blindly lead.

“To end the Blight, by any means necessary.  To hunt down and slay Darkspawn.” He meets my gaze with eyes like swords, “To follow orders.”

“Yes, Ser.” I say without thinking, years of training to do just that kicking in.

The smell of woodsmoke comforts me, lulls me into near sleep.  I’ve been put through my paces, you don’t grow up a Cousland and not learn some form of combat, but never have I been physically tested as I am now.  The flames dance, and my eyes fall to slits, my food falling from my hands.

“Sleep, Kaylen, I’ll watch tonight.” Duncan says, softly but with authority.

I nod, not even thinking to object

 

* * *

We see Ostagar days before the end of the Highway, the tall towers reaching from their roots on the hills.  And the weather is with us, and we make good time, arriving almost a full day ahead of schedule.  I spend the last few days of our march hoping for a summer shower, the heat and humidity building and large clouds drifting fat and lazy across the sky, but none come.

A man in golden armor greets us, his hair as shining as the rest of him.  He’s attractive, and I stare just past where his jaw and his ear meet, so as to not appear rude.

“Welcome!” He cheers as we approach, “I was beginning to worry you’d miss the battle, Duncan.”

“No, it appears we’ve arrive just in time.” Duncan’s voice has been losing tone over the course of our travels, everyday sounding a little less soulful.  “Your Majesty,” he salutes.

They go back and forth about the current situation, Duncan cautioning and the King all but discounting everything the Commander says.  He goes on and on about history and legend and his legacy being made in the upcoming battle, and I listen in mute shock until he turns his attention towards me.

“And who is this, Duncan?  Must be the new recruit you sent word about.”  His smile never leaves his face, greeting me with a small salute of his own.

“Your Majesty,” unsure of what to do, I bob a curtsey with my arms folded in their salute.  “A pleasure to meet you.”

“This is Kaylen, Sire.”

“Ah, you’re not the only one with that name.  One of the Teyrns has a daughter named the same.” His face is thoughtful, but we’ve never met.  I wasn’t allowed to go with the family to court events.

I smile with what I hope is amusement, “It’s a common name, Sire.  Possibly due to your own?”

“Perhaps.” He conceded, “Well, I really shouldn’t keep you.  Nor myself, Loghain insists on going over strategy, again.” He makes a small shake of his head, “Welcome to Ostagar, we’re glad to have you.”

And then he leaves, and I wonder how he can be so calm.  Historically, Blights have ruined societies.  They are hard fought and hard won with many lost.  I mention this to Duncan, how can he be so calm?

What a fool he is, believing in myth over the reality before him.  We must have had similar educations, been put to sleep with the same stories.  Duncan doesn’t disagree, only tempers me.  Reminds me of who I am speaking and to watch myself.

We part ways before the bridge, his orders clear and direct, but I find myself with time to kill.

 

* * *

If I thought the Tower was crowded when I first arrived, then this camp has more people in it than I thought were in the world.  Elves run around, always under foot, with messages and packages.  Soldiers saunter around in two or threes, and lines of them train in various martial arts.  Clerics preach from high platforms where the faithful knees in contemplation and prayer, to hear the chant.  The medics do their best to save lives already touched by the darkness.

After feeding an emaciated prisoner, my sympathy with his position still very fresh, I meet the other recruits; Jory is nice enough, proper and deferential, while Daveth greets me easily after his conquest leaves him eating his own words.  They point me in Alistair’s direction.  And with nothing else to distract me from my growing horror, I go to find him.

 

* * *

The Mage is being painfully short with him, almost cruel.  How can people behave in this manner at a time like this?  But I can only imagine that he’s lived his whole life with the Chantry breathing down his neck, literally.  So I wait until he leaves, calling me ‘fool’ along the way.  There seems to be a number of them running around today.

Alistair laughs when he sees me, but it’s a sad sound. He looks familiar, I can’t place it though.

“I don’t suppose you’re a Mage, too?” Oh Maker, save me, he looks just like my dog.  It puts me at ease, despite myself.

“Would that make your day worse?”  What?  Where did that come from?  He just laughs.  “What I mean to say is, I’m Kaylen, it’s pleasure to meet you.”  I extend my arm in greeting.

He grips my forearm, “Well, that’s a change.”  He smiles for real, and it hits me like my mabari waking me up.  He looks just like the king.

I stammer for a moment; what does he mean?  “I, um, Duncan told me to find you?”  I check behind me to see if the other Mage was gone, “What was that about?”

“Oh, you know, I used to be in training to be a Templar before I joined the Wardens, he…”

“Misunderstood?” I fill in for him as he stutters to a halt.

“Exactly!” His face lights up and slowly sobers into embarassed.  He clears his throat, “Have you met the other recruits?”

“Oh... yes,” I clear my own throat, “they’re…” I struggle for a way to describe the two men I met before Alistair.

“Interesting.  Yes, well, when your main form of recruitment is conscripting undesirables…” He shrugs at me, winking.

“Interesting I’ll go with, undesirables though…” I look off toward where I know Duncan and the others are waiting with a dewy expression.

I watch his eyebrows arch with my periphery, but is he interested or confused, I wonder.  Probably somewhere in between.  I turn back to him, almost laughing as his mouth opens and closes a couple of times as his brain reaches for another topic.

“You know,” he says slowly, “there’ve never been many women Grey Wardens.  Strange the things you don’t think of…”

“Until it’s staring you in the face?” I ask as a smile spreads across mine, “So, you want more women in the Wardens, is it?”

He pales a bit, but his grin remains.

“So, I hear you’re to accompany us in preparation for this Joining?”  The quick change of subject helps restore his normality, it seems to me, as he ploughs on into more comfortable territory.

“Yes, as junior Warden, that is my happy task.”

“Alright then, let’s get to it.”

“Let’s.” I see his smile as I turn away, a blush smeared across his cheeks.  Maker save us both.

 

* * *

I’ll not say that we had fun, but with Alistair cracking jokes, Jory whining, and Daveth being surprisingly noble, the time passes quickly.  Waves of Darkspawn, sidetracking diversions for the dead, and one flower later, we come to the ruins of the Warden outpost.

“Wait!” Alistair cries, as I approach a chest, “you can’t just blow anything here up!  If we want the treaties, and we want the treaties, one of _us_ will break the lock.”

“That’s what I’m _trying_ to do.” But I stop, no reason to upset him further, as the chest is already broken.  And, as far as I can see, completely empty.  Just because none of them could pick locks doesn’t mean we _shouldn’t_ try to get into the chests.

Daveth kneels next to it, hinging the lid back, and it breaks in two.  He shrugs, looking back at Alistair, eyes growing wide as his gaze settles somewhere behind us. We spin around, Daveth taking his feet quietly behind us, as a black-haired woman steps out of ruins we had explored only moments before.

She preens under our wondering gaze; her head cocking to the side, shoulders shimmying, her hips floating side to side as she stalks silently down the stairs.  And then she speaks, equal parts alluring and mocking.

I see the staff on her back and know her for what she is.  Her mocking turns accusatory.

“Well, what say you, hmm, scavenger or intruder?”

“Neither, but I’ll not answer anything further until you introduce yourself.” I step in front of the men, varied expressions muddled on their faces, and hide behind my own haughtiness.

“If you tell me your name, then I shall tell you mine.”

“I’m Kaylen, of the Grey Wardens.”  I don’t look to Alistair to see how he responds to my little fib, I just pray they she doesn’t read it.

“And I,” she pauses, looking behind me, I assume at the men, “am Morrigan.”

Daveth and Jory open their mouths and superstition pours out.  “Witch of the Wilds this”, and “frogs that”.  And then Alistair opens his mouth and joins in.  And it’s just outside of my ability not to glare at them all.

She responds in kind, being just enigmatic enough to fan their fears.  I grow tired of her talking quickly.

“Let’s go, she obviously doesn’t know where they are.” I draw attention to me, fighting not to fold under it as four pairs of eyes take my measure.

“Nonsense, you asked if they were here.  They are not.  You asked if I have taken them, and I have not.  But I do know who did.”  And I watch her stand straighter as we turn back to her.

“Well…?” I ask, but not what she wants.

She sighs, allowing me to win after I fail to break eye contact with her, “Twas my mother.”  The staring contest continues for a moment more.  And when it becomes apparent to her that I’m not playing her game anymore, and that, amazingly, the others are following my lead, she sighs again and takes a step towards us.  “Come, I shall take you to her.”

We follow, a few frog comments leave their mouths before I shuffle my staff and remind them that, I too, am a Mage.

 

* * *

 

Morrigan’s mother is more or less what I expected.  Less wild, but more crazy and more helpful, but less frightening.  Years of reading the same tales over and over again had not completely failed me.

I wish I could’ve warned the others, but Morrigan’s hearing seemed to take on a supernatural keenness as we continued through the marshes.

Our conversation is short; one admonition and one warning later, the treaties change hands and Morrigan leads us out of the marshes.

 

* * *

Dark has taken over the land by the time we reach camp again, and we have some trouble convincing the guard that we aren’t, in fact, Chaisnd coming to kill them all in their tents.  Alistair, showing a patient and kind nature, talks him down.

We separate, once through the gates, with only a small withering glance at the guardsman on my part.  The others go off to do, I don’t know what, but I have a flower for the kennel master and the quartermaster has a pair of boots I want to trade for.  I think I have enough wolf pelts to make up the difference I need in coin.  I remember the chest I have a key for, and sneak over to see what’s inside.

The Mages keep such things out in the open, I wonder what they have hidden away.

Once I finish, I head straight to Duncan and the others.  Alistair and Daveth are telling of how we came across the Morrigan while in search of the treaties.

“Have you gotten to the part with her mother, yet?” I ask from behind them, causing Alistair to jump.

“N-no, we were just getting there.” He stutters.

I smile, a mean smile, “Did you tell him how you were all tripping over yourselves over a ‘Witch of the Wilds’? Ooooh.”

“Not all of us are a comfortable with unnatural magics, as others.” Jory cuts in.

I open my mouth to remind him how happy he was for _my_ unnatural magics just hours before, but Alistair ploughs on, “Yes, anyway, her mother had the scrolls, and gave them up.”

“Just like that.” Duncan doesn’t ask, and he sounds tired.

“Yes.” Alistair says as though he’s been chastised, and drops his gaze to the ground.

“Then all is prepared.” Again, what should be a question is spoken as a statement of certainty, and I feel the vial of Darkspawn blood in my pocket grow heavy. “Come.”

He leads us away, to the dais where I found Alistair and the Mage bickering.  A table waits for us, a large silver goblet sits on it.  He takes a vial of blood from each of us and pours them into the goblet.

“Few words are said before the Joining, but they have been said since the first.  Alistair, if you would.”  Duncan turns from us as Alistair recites.

“Join us, brothers and sisters.”  The words are practiced, a well rehearsed prayer.  “Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.  Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn.”  He pauses, and I raise my face to him from where it had fallen to contemplate my shoes.  “And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.  And that one day,” he looks at Duncan, “we shall join you.”

Alistair bows out, stepping back and Duncan turns with the goblet in his hands.

“Step forth, Daveth.”

 

* * *

They’re dead.

I wake up, the cold cobbles pressing into all the wrong places, my hair sticking to my scalp with cold blood.  Not my blood, thank the Maker, but Jory’s.  I don’t scream, I can’t, my throat feels like it did that winter when I lost it for two months with actual illness; scratchy and raw.

Alistair is there, he pulls my hands from my head before I rip out a chunk of my itching scalp.

I remember them dying,  Watching Jory try to fight a man with years more experience and conviction to boot.  The light leaving his eyes before he drops to the ground.  And Daveth, sweeter and with more faith than I thought upon first meeting him.  How his eyes are swallowed with white before he, too, falls to the ground.

I don’t know what possessed me to drink when Duncan calls me, but I figure I’m dead either way.

I come back to myself and realize that Alistair is speaking to me, “Only one died during my Joining, but it was,” he pauses in thought, still holding my filthy hands, “horrible.” I’ve never heard any word sound to final.

“Help her up,” Duncan orders, “there’s a basin to wash in.” He points to a large bowl on the table where the goblet used to be.  “The king wishes a meeting before the battle.”

“Yes, Ser.” I mumble with all the voice I have.  Alistair hauls me up and holds my shoulders until I find my balance.  “Thank you.” I croak, less horribly this time.

“I’ll see you later.  And let me be the first to welcome you to the Order.”  He squeezes my shoulders in a way that feels like a hug, and he smiles a sad smile, “Congratulations.”

He walks away as I bend over the basin.  The cold water helps me regain the moment, wakes me as my hands rinse clean.  I let my braids loose to wash my hair as well.  Long years of growth crusted together with the soldiers blood.  How long was I unconscious?  I fear to ask, because it must be over a day.

Once clean and wrung as dry and I can manage, I turn to join Duncan.  Together we walk to the far end of the courtyard, to a table covered in maps and surrounded by men that scare me silent.

“I hear congratulations are in order.” The king exclaims, cutting Loghain off.

“Thank you, your majesty.” I whisper, and repeat my bob from our first meeting, glad that my voice has returned, somewhat, to normal.

Loghain resumes talking, and I like what I hear.  He’s the king’s polar opposite, all but begging to rely on tried and tested men and strategy.  “We must attend reality.” He says, rounding on Cailen.  “Your men are stationed here,”

“I remember,” the king cuts him off again, “to draw the Darkspawn out.”

“Yes, and I’ll be here, out of sight with my men, waiting for the signal.” Loghain says, “I have a few men stationed in the Tower, it’s not a dangerous task, but it is vital.”

“Then send Alistair and this new recruit.” The king turns to Duncan and I. “We should send our best.”

I watch Loghain’s face begin to turn red, “You trust in these Grey Wardens too much, Cailan.”

“Be that as it may, you will remember who is king.  If you’re so concerned, perhaps we should wait until the Orlesians join us, after all.” Cailan turns his smug expression back to Loghain.

The argument this statement sparks is both brief and final.

 

* * *

Duncan tells us what I already know.  Alistair is, surprisingly, disappointed to not be in the larger battle.  But a few sweet words console him into understanding.  

Clouds gather as we wait for our time.

The archers shuffle on the bridge as we watch, and we can hear the lines of men and women shifting and cursing and fearing below.  I can’t say, were I among them, if my courage would hold up any better.  My bold words to Duncan in the Tower come back to me, and I feel shame.  As it is, I’m pacing around Alistair, waiting for the hounds to be loosed.

A few arrows are let off, on both sides, to test range and the mettle of each as thunder rumbles.  A few clatter to the stones yards before us.  I press the pins holding my hair in braided buns, as my mother used to, as more experimental targets widely miss marks

And the the ground begins to shake as large projectiles are launched, but still their aim is off and the fly wildly overhead.

“I think that’s our que,” Alistair says with a wry grin and steel in his eyes.

I nod, and we’re off.  He’s ahead of me, off like a shot, I wonder how he moves so swiftly in all that maille.  And those few seconds between us make such a difference.  The bridge shudders viciously as it’s struck, knocking me back and nearly to the edge.

I spare a glance, bracing myself on the rough stone, on the battle beginning below.  I instantly regret my choice.  The mabari have just been sent out, even before the arrows finish falling.  I see the archers aim a little higher, trying to avoid the hounds.  

And then there’s the  darkspawn.  The few we faced in the wilds seem like a pleasant dream compared to the horde bearing down on the soldiers below.

Gold gleams in the corner of my eye as lightning flashes, and I see the king and Duncan on a wooden walk, shouting orders.

I ask the Maker to bless them, and keep them, as I race to catch up with Alistair who has almost crossed the bridge.  I narrowly miss another missile as it flies overhead, diving to the cobbles, as Alistair comes to an abrupt halt before two soldiers coming out of the courtyard of the tower.  I scramble to them, knocking dust from my hands and ignoring my stinging knees.

“What do you mean, the Tower’s been taken?” I hear Alistair ask between my own gasping breaths.

“They came up out of nowhere,” one started, hysterically.

“Out of the very ground!” the other added on, the same mad glint in his eyes.

“Well,” I say, taking one last breath clean of the smell of death, “what’re we waiting for?” I look Alistair in the eyes, and see he’s almost as scared as I am.

Without another word, Alistair charges at the nearest Darkspawn, knocking it from his feet with his shield.  I take aim at an archer further on, freezing it and then continuing the attack until it falls.  Our newcomers don’t shirk their duties, either, and we cut through the bands leading up the the Tower, freeing other soldiers to back out and defend the rear.

Inside the Tower is much the same.  One of the soldiers who joined us keeps an eye out from traps, though he’s useless whenever we come up to a locked box. The rest of us know our jobs, the intensity of the situation forcing us to work together as though we have had years together.  I spend a lot of time healing.

And the blood.  Outside, it was so much easier, just take a wide berth of the streaks and puddles not already deluded to pink in the rain.  Inside, it all runs together, the soldiers and Alistair all leaving great, bloody gashes in their opponents.

“Alistair,” I whisper as quietly as I can through heaving breaths, trying not the breathe through my nose, “it’s too much.” he doesn’t see me indicate the doorway through to our next destination, all but flooded with dark red blood.  The blood of both Darkspawn and soldier, their mangled bodies displayed at every turn to get a rise out of my stomach.

“You can’t give up.” he says, quieter than I could ever imagine, and then quieter still, “I need you.”  I feel my eyes bulge, but he goes on, louder again, “I need you to be strong, it’s not going to get better.”

I nod, but still keep my boots to the few dry spots I can find, and I tie my robes up, sick enough of the blood already staining my robes.

Their numbers thin out as we go higher, and there are fewer mutilated corpses.  It seems only a patent few were assigned to the higher levels.

“Thank the Maker,” I sigh, echoed by their agreement, as we approach the door to the highest floor.  The door looks unharmed, not marred with the marks of the Darkspawn and their endless scratching.  And I send a small prayer of hope that it is a sign of our troubles being past.

But then we open the door to a wide round room, and see it is mostly filled, impossibly, with a monster.

“Ogre,” Alistair exclaims, rushing forward.

I bolster him with a spell of healing, driving away previous cuts and weariness.  The soldiers go after him, all three of them covered in blood, and more to come as it seems this beast bleeds more than anything has a right to.

My ice spells are useful against it, freezing it to the ground to that the swords don’t have to chase it nor dodge out of it’s crushing grasp.

And then it’s dead, Alistair scaling it’s body as it falls, to deliver the killing blows.  He’s leaping off as he shouts, “Light the beacon!”

A torch, conveniently placed by the grating, is perfect.  I toss it in the fireplace, and the wood explodes.  The top of the tower blows off with the force.

“A trap?” I ask, my back still to the rest of the room, shielding myself from falling rocks and splinters.

My only answer is Alistair screaming a battle cry as I feel an arrow pierce my neck.  Then two more quickly follow.  I spin around, trying to heal everyone, as another arrow goes through me, my blood spilling far quicker than I know it should.


	2. Once Joined

I wake in stages. I know I'm not dead, I’m too comfortable to be dead, the Fade has never felt so sweet.  My fingers tingle, feeling warmth nearby, and there's a comfortable, soft weight over my lower body. I’m too warm to be in the top of the Tower.  I’m too dry to be covered in blood.  I don’t hear any screams.  I’m honestly afraid to open my eyes.

“Warden?” a crisp and almost unfamiliar voice sounds from above me.

I sit up, eyes starting to open, squinting into the glare of the fire.  “Where am I?” I shift my legs over the side of the bed and immediately drop my head between my knees as the spins catch me.

A shadow crosses over me, “I’m fine,” I say as I wave a dismissal.  When I can open my eyes without the world wavering at my feet, I sit up again to see the Mage from the wilds standing over me, near enough to touch.  “What happened?”

“Mother saved you and your friend from the Tower when one of your generals quit the field.” Her voice is filled with unexpected reticence.  

“What of the King?”

Her eyes tell me what I need to know before the tells me the toll, “Your friend is not taking it well.”

My mind feels like glass, smooth and clear.  “I should,” I stop, try to swallow with a sudden dry mouth, and stand up, “I should go see that he’s alright.”

She nods, but hold her hands up to stop me.  “Your robes were ruined, some of the arrows that...pierced you...were aflame.” She lifts a wad of fabric from the foot of the cot and hands it to me.

The leather is cool in my hands, and it feels sturdy compared to my Circle robes.  “Thank you, Morrigan.”

She nods and turns from me, heading to a pot stewing over the fire.

I dress, my thoughts on nothing further than putting my arms and head in the correct holes.  Making the belt buckle secure.  Pulling the warm stockings on.

“Warden?”

I look up, Morrigan nothing but a backlit silhouette, “Yes.” I can’t find the energy to make it a question.

She pauses before speaking again, obviously changing her words, “Mother wishes to speak with you.” she finishes, almost lamely.

 

* * *

 

It’s cold outside the hut, and damp, and I notice how bare my new robes leave me.  I tug the edges closer around my bust, and cast around for Alistair. I pull the stockings up as far as I can, their thick warmth making up for my bare hips.

“Ah, there you are.  See, young man, you worry too much.” the old woman’s voice takes me by surprise.  She all but seems to appear to my left acting as though she has been there all along.  Alistair plays along, ignoring my startled jump, and addresses me.

“Oh, thank the Maker.  I thought you were dead, thought  _ we _ were dead.” he hangs his head without actually looking at me.  “Everyone else is.”

And that’s when I begin to panic; he can’t fall apart, I’m falling apart.  The glass of my mind cracking.  My chest grows tight, drawing my breath short.  He’s senior, I have no idea what I’m doing.  But I say none of this.  I stand facing the Witch, and I open my mouth not knowing what will come out.  “So, what now?” I hear no conviction or curiosity in my voice.

Alistair doesn’t seem to hear it, too lost to his own grief, “We would be dead if it weren’t for Morrigan’s mother.”

“Yes, Alistair, but what now?” I reach for him, the cold metal of his armor keeping my grip from him.  “Are we to stand here until the Blight finds us?  Aren’t there any other Wardens we can call upon?” I press the issue, begging him with my eyes as I turn him towards me.

“She spent hours on you, there was so much blood.  Do you remember the tower?  I don’t recall how she saved us.” he blathers on.

I resist the urge to shake him.

“Don’t speak of me as though I were not present, lad.” Flemeth snaps, drawing both our gazes.

He sheepishly drops his gaze, his apologetic whine rolling off his posture.

“Thank you,” I belatedly whisper.

She laughs, deep in her belly, drawing a hysterical giggle from my throat.  My hands drop from him and grip my stomach., nausea coming in waves.

Alistair gapes, sputtering half excuses until he decides to just ask, “But, what to do we even call you?  You saved us and we don’t even know who you are.”

I nod, joining his bumbling, ecstatic that he’s snapped out of it.  “And why.  That can’t have been a simple task for anyone.”

“Do you think yours are the only lives affected by the Blight?” her face grows stern.  “You are Grey Wardens, are you not?”

I nod my head, her deep voice soothing something equally deep inside me.

It takes a few more moments, and the mention of her name, to draw Alistair back to the present.

“ _ The _ Flemeth?” he gasps, eyes bulging.

She laughs again, and I try to drag us back on topic, “But what do you think we two can do?” I turn to Alistair, whose eyes are finally clear, “Aren’t there other Wardens we could contact?”

His answers are not ones I want to hear; distance, time and intrigue make for the other Wardens coming problematic at best, and mostly likely impossible in any case.  He mentions the treaties, and his eyes light up.  Then he mentions the man who raised him, Arl Eamon.  And the excitement grows, not just in his voice and face, but his whole posture.

So we have an army.  If only we can gather them.

Our path set before us, we thank Flemeth, this time with true gratitude.

“I can offer you one thing,” she says with a sly grin, and offers her daughter as a companion on our quest.  “I give you that which I hold most dear,” Flemeth says after cajoling, admonishing, and ignoring her daughter into joining us, “because you cannot fail.”  And with that, she sends us away, none of us happy.

 

* * *

 

We leave for Lothering, as Morrigan suggests, because I have nothing better and Alistair finds more interesting comments in the grass than he does in us.

“It is not particularly far,” Morrigan says to me, as we make camp for the night, “but tis not an easy trail.  The Wilds are mostly swamp, impassible and deadly.” She indicates an expanse of land just past our fire light, “Looks like solid earth, no?” She says, picking up and throwing a fist sized stone.  The stone lands with a wet thud, sitting as though on solid ground before slowly sinking into the earth.

I nod, focusing in what Morrigan teaches to drive away my apathy.  So far I have learned to clean, skin, and cook small game, other dangers of the Wilds swamp lands, and that Darksapwn blood, undiluted, tastes nothing like the Joining.  Not to say that either is good.

“Another couple of nights,” she goes on, ignoring my wandering thoughts, “and we should find a path that connects to your Imperial Highway.” She turns the rabbit over to char the raw side.

“Should?” I ask, her vaguery jarring me from morbid thoughts.  She’s been so confident of every turn and path so far.

“Yes.” She sprinkles some herbs over the blackened side.  “The Chaisnd do not like their paths followed and they eradicate and remake them often.”

She gestures vaguely towards me and I hand her my dagger.  She refuses to carry any blades longer than an inch, but I plan to convince Alistair to teach me how to use the blade for dire moments.  She cuts into the thickest part of the meat and declares it done.

Alistair, sitting on the grass across the fire from us, barely glances up when she throws his portion to him.

“Morrigan,” I venture once we’ve finished eating, “can I convince you to be scarce for a few minutes?  I need to speak with Alistair.”

She looks between us, her face unreadable, before she nods.  As I blink, she disappears and a wolf takes her place, bounding off into the wilds.

“Hey!” Alistair cries out, throwing a meaty bone after her, “where’s she off to?”  He looks at me, and he reminds me of my mabari pup.

“I asked her to go. You and I need to talk.” I say as I cross to sit beside him.

“What is there to say?  It’s not a bad plan.” he mumbles into his knees.

“Alistair,” I can’t keep the irritation from my voice, “I have no idea what I’m doing.  I’ve hardly been outside, let alone traipsing across the nation gathering an army!  I need you to snap out of it.”

“You think I know any better than you?  I’m the junior Warden, emphasis on junior.  What could I possibly help you with?”  he threads his fingers together and then releases them, over and over, his attention intent on his task.

“Look, I’m sorry about Duncan, I am.  And all the other Wardens as well, but there’s nothing we can do about it now.  No one, no Mage or cleric, can raise the dead.  But we have the living to attend, and I can’t do this alone.” I feel tears begin to prick at my eyes and I try, futilely, to blink them away.

He lifts his head, but only to gaze into the fire.  “You and Morrigan seem to have it under control.” he sneers, his shoulders bunching in disgust, recoiling from my vicinity.

“What happened to working together?” I accuse, pointedly, angrily eyeing the side of his head.  “What, is the Templar too good to work with us Mages?”

His silence has the air of being stunned, and he finally turns his face to me.  His brows drawn together in anger.

“I don’t care about that!  Why would you say that?” He turns his whole body towards me.  “I thought that was clear enough back at…” his voice trails off and his eye go distant again.

“Then what  _ is _ the matter?  Have I offended you?  This is the first time since Flemeth’s that you’ve spoken more than two words at a time.  Do I have to make you angry to get you involved?”

“Kaylen, I...I just,” he stutters to a stop.

“I understand, Alistair--”

“You couldn’t possibly,” he interrupts me, with a force that almost pushes me back, “you said it yourself, you’ve been sheltered and coddled and you have no idea what you’re doing!  Well what makes you think I do either?”

I spend a moment in my own stunned silence, tears finally brimming over and trailing down my face.  Only now, they’re angry.

“How...how dare you?” I choke through.  I stand up, stalking away from him to hide my crying, “you push us away.  You refuse to lead, as it your  _ duty _ !  Do not punish me for  _ your _ shortcomings.”  I know the words are false, that I intend for them to hurt him as much as I can.

“Maker, now you’re acting like a child.  Maybe this was all a mistake.  How did you survive the Joining when two seasoned men didn’t.  Amazing.”

Abruptly, before my mind catches up with my body, I’m dropping to my knees in front of him, and slapping him across the face.  It’s a weak blow, but his head slips to the side with my palm.

“You would make a terrible leader anyway.” And I uses his shoulders to stand, angrier still that he doesn’t budge when I shove him.  And still, more angry with myself.  He was a fine leader at the Tower, and I’ve now pushed him further away.  He retreats into silence and stares out into the Wilds and I cry on my bed roll.

 

* * *

 

The next three days are nearly silent.  Only necessary information passing between us.  Which appears to suit Morrigan fine, except even I can see her exasperation each time we exchange childish glares.  Which, in truth, only distract us from what we really should be doing; watching our steps.

I regret this lack of attention more than once.

But she holds her tongue.  Even without her wolf ears, I know she must have heard parts of our shouting match.  

“There, just ahead, we should be to the town before evening.”  She points out the pavers us, blinded by the trees.

We give no response, save for quickened footfalls.  I hope she keeps her fair temper; an extra day in the Wilds to weave through the liquid landscape and constant wildlife attacks wear on us, and I think on her.

“Does not a bed for the night stir either of you?” she gives an attempt at raising our spirits.  I can only imagine how hers have weathered with the two of us as her companions

“What do you care?” Alistair rudely, as seems to be his permanent attitude, grunts at her.

“Alistair!” I, wielding her odd blend of anger and sadness as a weapon, scold drawing from an apparent deep well of resentment.

Morrigan laughs as though she can’t not; louder than I would like, but not cruel.

“You two deserve each other.” She moves ahead to clear the last of the branches out of our way.  “Do not mind me, Warden, his barbs are dull as hit wit.”

“It doesn’t excuse rudeness, when you’re only being helpful.  And nice.” I finish, trailing off as we step into unimpeded sunlight.  I turn my face skyward, eyes closed and mouth open, soaking up the late summer warmth.

“I still think she’ll be more trouble than she’s worth.”  Alistair says, pulling leaves out of his hair

“Maker, it’s like you try to be as cruel as possible!”  The serenity, brief as it was, is gone from me as I turn on him.

“We’re going into a town with a Chantry.  That means Templars.  You, we can explain away, if we need to.  But she’s no Warden.”  He points at Morrigan, who’s folded her arms across her front, regarding us both cooly.

“What, are you above lying to further our cause?  At least enough to keep us safe.  No one else knows she isn’t.”

“I would sooner turn her in myself.  Being a Warden means something.  More than being traded off.”

“Enough!  The both of you.  You are grieving, and doing a poor job of it.  Alistair, I know you won’t turn me in, but neither, Kaylen, will I have you make that kind of lie for me.  I’m not afraid of idiots who hide behind old wive’s tales and metal suits.  I am not ashamed of who I am.”  She strides ahead, “Nor do I not know how to blend in enough to avoid their attentions.”

She turns back when neither of us move to follow her.  “Well, come on.  There’s beds for you and maybe something hot to perk you back to your original, irritatingly optimistic selves.”

 

* * *

 

I’m overwhelmed when my mabari shows up, seemingly out of nowhere.  And not just because of the small horde that follows her.  I fall to my knees and throw  my arms around the hound’s neck, after the last darkspawn crumples, blood be damned.

“He must have been searching for you.” Alistair says, interest and adrenaline making him forget that he isn’t talking to me.  

“Shadow was a gift from my parents when I reached my majority.  I only had her a short time before I was taken away.” I mumble into my hounds neck.

“Imprinting doesn’t take that long.”

“What good will this mangy beast be?”  Morrigan speaks over the two of us, irritated, effectively making the mood shift complete.

“He’s not mangy.” Alistair coddle-talks, and I like him a little more for it.

“They’re warhounds for a reason, Morrigan.  And she’s faithful to me.” I stand, my hand wrapping through her collar.  “She’ll be invaluable.”

 

* * *

 

Morrigan is not incorrect.  After getting into the town, a bloody piece of work, the hot stew of the tavern seems to give a more permanent raise to our moods.  Enough that, the Wilds witch, notices that Alistair has finally taken notice of what I’m wearing.  He blushes every time he looks up from his bowl.

I choose to ignore him.  It worked with Cullen, why wouldn’t it work with another shy, Chantry type?

A shadow falls over our table in the form of two men in armour.  They boast about how they’re going to kill us for the reagent and complain about how the whole town is lying to them.  There’s no talking them down.  Even a Chantry sister has no ability to calm them.

The room, other boarders and diners, quickly clear to the side as steel clangs and magic roars.  And then they’re begging for their lives, and the sister is pleading for them also, and I just want to scream at them all.

“What would you have me do?  We can’t trust them to not go straight back to Loghain and tell him everything!”  My staff is still pointed at them as I beseech the sister.

“They’re surrendering, you cannott just murder them!” She lacks the air of innocence of other Chantry folk I’ve known

“You know they’d do the same, should our positions be reversed.” Morrigan accuses, even as the head soldier shakes his head in denial.

“I don’t want to, but I can’t let Loghain know our movements.”  I spare the Sister a glance, “What would you have me do?”

Morrigan scoffs at me, and she shimmers with a spell just on the tips of her fingers, while Alistair holds stock still, another soldier held firmly in his arms. The Sister stammers.

“Fine,” I mutter, standing straight and leaning on my staff, “but I want you to go away from here.  Do not seek out Loghain, or when next we meet, you’ll regret it.”  I don’t believe they’ll do as I say, but what’s important is that I mean it and that I’ve said it with sharp teeth.  All Fereldans understand that.

They race off and the Sister spares no time in thanking me for my mercy, and certainly the Maker has guided my hand.  Then she does the unthinkable, she asks to join us.  Well, more like she says she’s  _ supposed _ to join us.  She tells me of her miracle.

Morrigan wanders off at the first mention of the Andrastian faith, and Alistair makes light, but I understand.  But this doesn’t mean I can just open my arms and welcome her in.  There’s too much at stake.

“Alright, the Maker aside, which is no small thing, why do you wish to come?  It’s almost certain death, and /certainly not going to be easy.”

“The Maker’s will is what is important, Warden, but the Blight is not something that should be allowed to continue.  Look at all the lives it has ruined already.  I would stop it’s spread no matter the cost to me.”  She looks sincere when she says it.

“We will be hunted, as you’ve seen, and we’re already seen as traitors...”  I tick off a few others of our undesirable traits while she listens calmly.  “And I cannot guarantee that you will find what the Maker has sent you for.”

“Have faith, and you will always find yourself where you need to be.” She speaks as though she’s reciting the chant.

“Well, I guess I can’t turn away help,especially the freely given, welcome aboard…” I stop as I realize I haven’t asked her name.

“Leliana.” She supplies, grasping my outturned hand.  “May the Maker guide us all.”

I can only nod, and think about how my stew has likely gone cold.

 

* * *

 

We spend three days in Lothering, putting together information and coin.  Another joins our party, a Qunari who says his name isn’t Sten, but that is what he’s called.  I think I spent as much time insulting him by accident as I did convincing him that he could still attone for his sin.  I think our definitions of atonement differ greatly.

But he seems highly competent, if not completely terrifying, and he joins us knowing full well he could just as soon be free of all of us.

We camp a full day’s walk outside of Lothering in what Alistair and Sten agree is a ‘moderately defensible’ position.  I keep my mouth shut because there is a river nearby where I can wash, and that’s all I really care about.

I take Shadow with me, as much to guard against my companions as the world.  I wash my robes out first, days of blood and grime and sweat flowing downstream and away from me.  I have the sudden and powerful wish that I could follow it, that I hadn’t been so brave when I spoke to Duncan, that I had turned Jowan down.  While I’m wishing, as my hysterical moment passes, I wish we had been smart enough to purchase horses at any point.

The cold water eases the pain in my feet, so even that wish passes.  Frivolous and useless and forgotten as I submerge and scrub my smalls.  I rub river sand all over me and let the current drag at my hair.  Once I figure I’m as clean as I’m like to be, I dry off with a blanket, don dry smalls, and wrap the blanket around and tie it off with a bit of rope.

Throughout it all, Shadow sits dutifully at the river’s edge, her keen senses learning our surroundings.  But while I dry, I let her play in the water, splashing around and chasing little fishes.  She catches them as she can, until I have six in the dirt next to me by the time I’m ready to head back to camp.  I make sure they’re dead and washed free of grit and tie them together with a length cut from my belt.

I come back to camp to see everything settled; Morrigan has her own fire off to the side, Leliana has a tent set up and it tuning a small lute, Sten is standing guard, and Alistair is poking the fire.

Sten nods as I pass, the first to see me, and I greet him in kind.  I don’t think I’ll ever know what to say to the large man.  He uses words as plainly as I can understand, but they mean nothing to me more often than not.

I sit on my bedroll and put the fish in the grass next to me.

“Fish stew?” Alistair asks, not grimacing exactly.

“Char them?” I shrug, enjoying the warmth of the fire.

“Wow, your hair is looong.” Alistair blinks at me.

“You should let me experiment with it, sometime.” Leliana lilts over him, settling next to me.

“I don’t really think we have the time…” I say with regret in my voice, all the while using my fingers and the fire to expedite drying.

“Yes,” Sten cuts in, his tone stern, “I was of the understanding that you had devised a battle plan.  I believe it is past time to enlighten us of our orders.” He stands above us, not exactly at attention but as immovable as a tree.

“Well,” I say, feeling my cheeks heat up with all of their attention on me, “I figure we go to the Circle first.  I know them there and it should be the easiest first stop for allies.”

“But Arl Eamon is only a week away, give or take, the Tower is at least twice that.”  Alistair gripes, turning to face the conversation.

“Yes, I know that, but I’m not inclined to trust any noble at present.  I’m sorry, Alistair, I’m not even sure I could trust my own family right now.”  I bite my lip against it quivering, thinking about my family.  They could be dead for all I know, Father and Fergus were both at the battle.  I remind myself to send a letter from the next available location.

“He’ll be more than willing, the king was his nephew.  Of course he’ll want to fight back.”

“Alistair, I don’t want to argue.  We’re going to the Circle first because I  _ know _ that Irving will be on board.”  Leliana leans against me in silent support and Sten crosses his arms and stare through Alistair.

“Alright, fine.  I just... _ fine _ .”  My fellow Warden stalks away from the fire, toward the river, his shoulders tight.

I rustle through my pack for spare robes and dress over the blanket.  “I’ll be right back, I’m going to go talk him down.”

Leliana nods with a smile and I think Sten ignores me.  Morrigan has ignored the whole incident, bent as she is over her vials and fire.

I scuttle after him, taking no pains to be quiet.  Why does he have to fight me at every turn?  If he had wanted to lead, why didn’t he just...Why didn’t I just let him?  That’s not a terrible thought.  Everything would be easier if I didn’t have to make all of the decisions.  And if he won’t lead alone, maybe we could come to some kind of rotation.

That could work, he’d make a better battle leader anyway, what with his practical knowledge.  But I’m willing to hold out for the Circle as our first stop.  Greagor might not be thrilled, but they can’t deny us aid with the treaties.

“Alistair!” I call out as he comes into view.  He’s down to his trousers, his armor piled on the bank.

“Feel the need to rub it in?”  He mutter, more to his navel than to me.  “I need to wash off, this armor is ill-fitted and it’s chafing.”

“We can buy you some new armor then, I’m sure Bodahn has something.” I shrug, turning away from him so he can continue, “but we do need to talk.  We can’t keep going at each other like mabari.  There needs to be some kind of understanding between us.”

“Oh, there’s an understanding,” his sarcasm grates against me, “you make the decisions and I hit things until they fall down.  But only things that you tell me to hit.”  I hear his splashing into the water.  I would have thought he’d have a harder time getting naked around me.  But I do suppose he was raised communally.

“That’s not fair, and you know it.  I told you I don’t want to lead, who wants a Mage to lead?  Scholars and theorists, most of us.  Not to mention I’m a second child, my brother had all of the leader lessons.  But you don’t want to, either.  You can’t argue every time I don’t do what you want.” I speak louder than I want so he can hear me, the darkness and the trees eating my words.

“A good leader listens to others when they offer council.”  He says, but I can’t read his tone.

“What?  Like Cailen and the traitor?  If the king had listened, do you think Loghain would have betrayed us all?  Do you plan to turn your back on me?”  It’s cruel, more cruel than I intend, but I fear more true than I had previously thought.

Loud splashing causes me to turn, worried for his safety.

“How dare you,” he growls as he drags himself out of the water, his face red and his fists clenching and unclenching.  He stops just short of embarrassing the both of us.  “I would never.  But you seem void-bent on driving us weeks out of our way just so you can go home!”

It’s my turn to take my feet in indignation, my own face flushing, “My home, should you ever have had the thought to ask, is weeks yet again away from the Circle.  It’s in Highever, and if I wanted to be sure of my allies, I still wouldn’t go there.”  I stop, my toes damp at the river’s edge, my voice lowering now that I face him,  “I know how the nobility plays.  I know that even the nobility won’t touch the Circle, and for more than one reason.  I know that my theory of strategy is correct.  What is really on your mind?”

I watch as all of his anger leaves him as his hands unclench and his face relaxes then tenses again in...worry?

“Just leave it.  You’re probably right, we should go to the Circle.  But,” he pauses and his brow furrows while the rest of his face softens as his head droops, “Will you promise me we’ll go to the Arl next?”

I nod for a moment before I realize he isn’t going to look up.  “Of course, Alistair, I had always planned to.”  He relaxes more completely, his agony leaving him.  “And, I think,” I don’t know how to say what I had thought up only short minute before, “maybe we could not say that only one of us leads.  Surely you’ll have better insight at some times than I will.”

He laughs derisively, short and bitter, “We’ll see about that.  Doesn’t seem to be the case so far.”

 

* * *

 

I leave him as quietly as I can, my face hot with embarrassment at the whole situation.  I no longer question how he can wield his shield so effectively, sending enemies flying with a few quick jabs of his shield.

 

* * *

 

Our hike from Lothering to the Tower is quiet, for the most part.  Bandits are always an issue on the open road, but with the collection of talent I’ve been harboring make them easy work.  There’s a rhythm that we’ve found and, so far it has kept us intact.

Morrigan and Sten keep to themselves, in camp as on the road, while the rest of us discuss how the rumors we heard in town could possibly affect our efforts.

“Obviously we can’t announce we’re Wardens, to anyone.  Anymore.” Alistair trades a glance with me and I nod.

“That won’t be a problem at the Circle, they already know, but otherwise, you’re right.”  I shift my pack higher, the straps digging into my tendons.  I wonder if I’ll ever be used to hiking and camping.  “Not to mention we  _ have _ to try to keep out of this civil war that the nobles are so keen in starting on our behalf.”

Alistair laughs at the look Leliana gives me.  “Wardens are supposed to remain neutral in local politics.”  He explains, after he wipes the tears from his eyes.

“But won’t getting the populace on your side be,” she shrugs, the first time I’ve seen her at a loss for words, “necessary?  Your struggle will be inherently politic.”

“I’m hoping that gathering the army and showing that our focus is on the Blight, and not on his treason, that the people will see that we’re not in this for the recognition, but to do our duty.”  Sten grunts and nods at the same time that Leliana beams at me.

“You, darling girl, are the thing ballads are made of.”  She laces her arm through mine as we walk, gently nudging me.

“Oh, Maker, no  _ thank you _ .  If you feel the need to begin writing ballads, please keep me far out of them!”  But I can’t help but smile at her, her exuberance bleeding into me.

Alistair wanders towards point, a scowl on his face and Shadow on his heels.  And Sten, now shaking his head with a creased brow, pulls away to the side, scanning our flanks.

“I don’t know what’s happened, but, since Lothering everything feels like it’s changed.  It doesn’t feel so hopeless anymore.” I say as I squeeze her arm with mine.

“What were the other rumors, again?”  She asks me, as though she doesn’t know.  As though she hadn’t spent the past few nights spinning stories about their absurdity.

The dust settles in our wake as the day rolls forward, the two of us chatting despite cutting remarks from both Sten and Morrigan on how we make ourselves much easier targets if our attention is not on the road.  We tease them back a bit, reminding them that, aside from the fact that we’re on an elevated road, that plains spread out on all sides with nearly unimpeded views.  Rolling eyes and put upon scoffing are our only replies.

 

* * *

 

We find Lake Calenhad much as I left it; deep, cold, and made passable by only one small boat.  One small boat which should not have had a Templar standing guard next to it.  I trade a worried glance with Morrigan who only tilts her chin up with pride, and there’s an angry flash in her eyes.  I stop short; I recognize the placid face, even from the top of the hill.  Even if I can’t remember his name. Just another Templar.  

I feel guilty as that thought crosses my mind.

A trip into the inn, the innkeeper remembers me and kindly assures me that my letter went off, tells me many things that I need to know; primary of which is that the Tower is coming apart at the seams.  The ferryman, who I barely remember, gushes at me about his little dinghy. 

“Do you think he’ll let us across?” I ask of Alistair as we cross to the docks.

He shrugs, but Leliana answers, “Have faith, darling Warden, and nothing is impossible.” She smiles and the other, behind her, make a variety of faces.  But I smile at her, and nod, as I face the Templar who’s only just become aware of us as we stop before him.

 

* * *

 

“Carroll, you must let us across.  We can only help.”

“Oh, yes, a disgraced Mage, what are  _ you _ going to do?  The Knight-Commander says no one is to cross then, even were Andraste to come down from the Maker’s side on a flaming chariot...” he trails off

“But I’m a Grey Warden!  We’re Grey Wardens!  This is a Blight!  If there’s anything I can do to help you, let me, because I need the Mages  and the templars to help fight that!”

He mocks me, and in frustration, I mock back.  And I remind him, none too gently, of what I stand accused of and I threaten him with Greagor’s disapproval.  Alistair shifts nervously beside me, and I can feel Morrigan’s pleasure at the Knight’s shaming.

But he finally concedes, only saying he’s tired of dealing with me and better that the Commander deal with me in his own way.

The crossing takes longer than I remember.  Though my trip was fraught with shame and anger, I suppose that would make the time pass faster than the cold pit of fear I’m currently nursing.  Leliana, beside me on the bench, puts an arm around me a squeezes.  Alistair is at the bow, watching the looming Tower grow and grow, tall before but becoming more monstrous with every stroke.

Shadow lays at our feet, all but asleep.  Apparently immune to our anxiety.  I stroke her ears, soft and hot and still, and gather strength from her.


End file.
